ACT TWO

Jonathan Archer seethed.

Mere seconds had elapsed since the shuttlepod had disappeared into the obscuring planetary atmosphere, victims of an unexpected attack, and the image of it tumbling out of control, smoke and debris trailing from a gaping hole in its superstructure, was seared in his mind. A wave of grief washed through him but was almost immediately swept aside by a fury the likes of which Jon had never felt before. How dare they! He glared at the image of the four smaller craft approaching from the planet in what could only be an attack vector for two full seconds before his command reflexes finally kicked in.

Light from the local main sequence star played across their silver-gray hulls, glittering brightly in the blackness. Aesthetically, they were undeniably beautiful, all smooth curves and flowing lines. Embossed upon their hulls were stylized representations of a winged creature; scarlet in color, the image brought to mind an alien phoenix, or hawk, or eagle.

A bird of prey.

Less than half the size of the NX-01 they raced through the void with a grace and speed that Enterprise could not match, metal sharks in the endless sea of space. Disruptor cannons hung low along their outer surfaces and the unmistakable ports that could only be missile tubes dotted the hulls, lending them a sinister aspect that marked them immediately as ships of war. Jon recognized them at once.

Romulans.

Little was known of the mysterious race aside from their name and their clear expansionist plans; even the Vulcans claimed to have minimal intelligence regarding them aside from knowledge of an aggressive nature matched only by Klingons. For the last three years, there had been rumors and hints of Romulan activity along this entire corridor of space, from the drone incident of two years past to the steady if sporadic assaults on the shipping lanes. Concerned at this growing threat, Starfleet had accelerated their construction of new NX craft to the point that three others had joined Columbia and Enterprise in operation and the NX-06 - Endeavour- was scheduled to enter service within the year. Just in time it seemed.

"Travis," he ordered, his voice much calmer than he felt. The memory of the Romulan craft roaring up out of the atmosphere and firing upon the shuttlepod would not go away. "Set course one-eight-zero mark zero, full impulse. Malcolm, target lead ship and hit them with everything we have." Archer paused ever so briefly and when he spoke again, his voice was bleak, cold, angry. "I want him out of my sky." He knew that the anger was dangerous, inappropriate, but couldn't find it in himself to care. "Mister Rostov, inform Commander Kelby to have damage control parties standing by." As his crew acknowledged the instructions, he dropped into his command chair, primed the ship's log for emergency ejection. Just in case.

Under Mayweather's expert hand, Enterprise ... danced. Accelerating into a wide turn, she raced to meet the enemy head on, as if alive and eager to avenge her fallen crew. Phase cannon blasts lanced out, searing through the lead Romulan craft's hull plating in angry exclamations; a full spread of torpedoes slammed home, detonating with flashes of atomic fire that ravaged the craft, ripping apart the superstructure to expose the delicate inner hull to yet another burst of phase cannon fire. Unable to withstand the withering assault, the ship shuddered, venting plasma and atmosphere before falling planetside, already captured by New Elysium's gravity, already breaking apart. There would be no survivors.

The cold part of Archer that had driven him so hard in the Expanse, the part that he had thought - and prayed! - was gone forever surged back to the forefront and, for thinking that such a cruel death was fitting for Trip's murderers, for T'Pol's murderers, Jon hated himself a little.

But only a little.

The remaining three Romulan craft broke their formation, diving or climbing away from Enterprise with deadly agility even as they unleashed a brutal retaliative barrage. Disruptor fire and photonic torpedoes flashed toward Enterprise and she was wreathed in sudden flame. Warheads that missed, either jammed by Hoshi's skill or eluded by Travis' touch, streaked on into the night before finally detonating, filling the void with brilliant bursts of incandescence; those that found their target exploded against the invisible force screen that surrounded the flagship of Starfleet, momentarily sketching an outline of the shield. Enterprise twisted into a diving spin, phase cannons still spitting steady streams, before straightening, accelerating away from the planet, away from the gravity silhouette that hampered her maneuverability.

"Damage report!" Archer ordered, his eyes jumping to his tactical officer. Already, the smell of smoke and burnt plastic was in the air. It was a stench Jon had gotten all too accustomed to smelling. He hated that, missed Enterprise being a science ship, missed being an explorer and not a soldier.

"Shields down to 35, hull plating down to 95." Reed was frowning, frustrated that the shields had been drained so quickly; it was to be expected, though - experimental systems were rarely as good as advertised, even when installed by a miracle worker. He glanced up, meeting Archer's eyes. "Sir, we can't go toe-to-toe with them, not all three of them at once."

"Put some distance between us," Jon said, dropping his hand onto Mayweather's shoulder. "Full evasive."

"Aye sir," Travis replied, his face set in a grim line. His fingers played across his console, moving to an unseen beat.

Once more, Enterprise maneuvered like a ship half her size, slipping and spinning in completely random patterns that turned her into an elusive target. Nipping at her heels like wolves pursuing prey, the three Romulan craft spat disruptor fire and torpedoes as they pursued. But this prey was armed. And angry.

They dueled in the dark, a violent ballet in a symphony of destruction. Light flashed between them, tongues of red and green that caressed with a burning touch or exploded in flashes of frozen fire. Had it not been so lethal, so destructive, so ... final, it would have been beautiful to behold.

The part of Jonathan Archer that hadn't been tainted by his time in the Expanse, the part that loved Charles Tucker like a brother, railed at the injustice of it, screamed at the unfairness of being forced to abandon the shuttlepod, to abandon Trip. He and T'Pol could be alive, could be injured and in desperate need of medical attention right now, could be waiting for rescue at this very moment. It hurt like hell, having to leave them behind, but he had ninety-one other lives to worry about, ninety-one men and women whose lives were his responsibility. Unexpectedly, a Vulcan saying crept into his head, a memory from the brief time Surak's katra had resided within him: The needs of the many...

It didn't make the pain any more bearable.